The Problem with Josephine

by Lucy Ashford

  Endure, he’d said. But he must know. This sensual, experienced man must know that he only had to touch her for her body to become a mass of need. Only had to move his lips against hers for her mouth to open to him, savouring his kiss that possessed and plundered, while she clung to his wide shoulders, not only her breathing but her whole self almost out of control.

  It was he who carefully drew away, though he still held her, steadying her, as his eyes glinted darkly.

  Only then was she was strong enough to step back from him. Defensively she clenched her hands and stared up at him. Payment. That was all this was. He was amusing himself at her expense, toying with her. ‘So,’ she breathed at last. ‘One more night of work to go. I trust all this has kept you entertained!’

  He was watching her, his eyes unreadable. ‘There is no harm in happiness, Sophie,’ he said quietly. ‘Sometimes you have to grasp at life, or it isn’t worth living.’ And he went back to his work.

  But that night, when Jacques returned to his apartment in the Faubourg St Honoré, he was in such a black mood that even his valet was wary of him.

  Only two nights left before the wedding, and the Tuileries Palace had been hectic all day. Though Sophie had completed her work in preparing the draperies for the empress’s private chambers, she was constantly being called on for extra tasks or advice.

  ‘Sophie, these flowers need arranging! Sophie, the curtains in the reception hall could really do with your finishing touch!’ the head housekeeper would beg. ‘Sophie, should these gold candlesticks—they were a wedding gift from the Tsar of Russia—be here, or here? No one knows these things as well as you, my dear!’

  Sophie got away at last at six, and hurried through the still-sunny Paris evening to the Louvre where Jacques would be waiting. And her heart was heavy. These hours in the dimly lit wedding chapel had come to mean more to her than she would ever admit.

  She had made a fool of herself in front of Jacques, an utter fool, by declaring that she had no time for men or sentiment, then yielding so treacherously to his kiss. Still, why worry? she told herself sadly. After tomorrow tonight she would never see him again, and no doubt he was completely happy with that arrangement. In fact, that evening he worked more swiftly than ever, applying paint with dexterity. Only once did she dare to question him about his work.

  ‘Jacques, I did not think Josephine was in that painting!’

  ‘Ah, but she is,’ he told her calmly. ‘She’s lurking amongst the nymphs surrounding gallant Hercules—who just happens to be Napoleon. It won’t take me long.’

  Suddenly they were aware of a cacophony of sound, at the far end of the Long Gallery but drawing nearer. Sophie looked speechlessly at Jacques for guidance; he, being taller, could see better than she.

  ‘Napoleon,’ he said swiftly. ‘With his courtiers, and Denon. I don’t think they’ll enter the chapel. He’s probably checking that the gallery is ready for all his guests, and the procession. If we stand behind the pillars—here—I don’t think they’ll see us.’

  He was right. From where Jacques guided her, she was able to see the emperor stalking up and down the gallery issuing orders, while his courtiers scurried around him, listening, nodding, making notes.

  ‘We need more bronze eagles here,’ the little emperor declaimed, ‘above the place where my Imperial Guard will stand!’ He pointed to another section of the hall. ‘Those laurel wreaths should be more prominent. And couldn’t we have the Bartolini bust of me in here?’

  ‘Your Imperial Majesty,’ said Denon quickly, ‘we might be able to move the Bartolini from the Salle de la Victoire, yes, but not the Rubens painting, The Triumph of the Victor, that hangs so appropriately, so sublimely, above it! How can the two be separated? Be assured that all your distinguished guests will wish to view the two of them together, and indeed will be guided to them—I myself will take responsibility for it!’

  For a moment the silence was ominous. Then, ‘Hmm,’ said Napoleon. He glanced round critically. ‘Perhaps for once you are right, Monsieur Denon. Other than that, it is all good, very good. Marie-Louise will not be disappointed. Her wedding day will be the most glorious day of her life!’

  Sophie had listened with bated breath, but now she had to repress the sudden desire to laugh. Jacques glanced down at her; his lips, too, were quivering with amusement. ‘Emperors. They tend to have a high opinion of themselves,’ he said wryly. He glanced out at the Long Gallery. ‘It’s all right, they’ve gone.’

  ‘I feel so sorry for Marie-Louise,’ Sophie blurted out. ‘She is scarcely more than a child! And to be married to a man so vain, so prone to rages!’

  ‘You feel pity for her, when she is to be married to the most powerful man in Europe? To be fêted throughout the greatest cities in the world, to be adorned with crowns and jewellery—have you seen the parure that Napoleon has bestowed on her?’

  ‘I have heard of it,’ she breathed. ‘A necklace and tiara, earrings and comb, all made from the finest diamonds and emeralds in the world. For myself, I do not care for show, but all the great ladies of Paris are wild with envy!’ Then Jacques saw her face become shadowed. ‘It’s just that…she is so very young. And she must be so nervous, at the thought of the…the…’

  ‘Of the wedding night?’ His dark eyes lazily smouldered. ‘Au contraire. I believe she welcomed him rapturously to her bed. Her cries of delight were heard throughout the neighbouring chambers.’

  Sophie’s cheeks were filled with fierce colour now. ‘They have been intimate? But how? Where?’

  ‘He went to meet her at Compiègne, where he spent the night with her. They were—’ he paused ‘—very happy with each other.’

  ‘How do you know such things?’

  He put a finger lightly to her lips. ‘One hears everything at the Palais-Royal.’

  Sophie thought, And our vain emperor is quite capable of spreading such stories himself. She struggled to collect herself. To remind herself that she was merely a seamstress, a spinster, and a man’s touch should definitely not send rivulets of heat trickling through her. ‘I’m sure one does, Monsieur Jacques,’ she responded crisply. ‘Now, if you have finished, we really must be locking up.’

  ‘So I’ll see you here tomorrow?’

  She froze. ‘I thought you had finished.’

  ‘Not quite. The varnish needs to be applied, remember?’

  ‘Of course.’ She frowned, and stared at the painting he had just altered. ‘To think that I never noticed that one!’

  ‘It was easily missed, but we can’t afford to take any chances,’ he reminded her. ‘Napoleon has eyes like a hawk. Tomorrow night?’

  ‘Tomorrow night.’

  The night before the wedding. The last time she would see him, ever. And tonight he hadn’t even kissed her.

  But he’d wanted to. Oh, he’d wanted to. After he’d walked with her to the Tuileries, Jacques the painter pounded round Paris, until he finally settled himself in a lowly wine bar in the rue de la Baume, where men were laying wagers on how long Napoleon’s bride would take to bear him a son. ‘She’s a Habsburg,’ they were declaring. ‘A fertile race, the Habsburgs, as well as possessing the bluest blood in Europe!’

  Jacques closed his eyes to their increasingly raucous banter and drank too much burgundy.

  Hell. How had he landed himself in this? He’d just wanted to help her, because she was lovely, an innocent. But he’d quickly realised the kisses had to cease, because her reaction to his touch brought fire to his own blood, and heated him to the point where he would not be able to stop.

  For God’s sake. He couldn’t bear the thought of not seeing her again. But how was he going to tell her…everything?

  Chapter Four

  On the eve of the wedding the Tuileries Palace was thronged with courtiers and servants. Down in the vast kitchens, armies of cooks bustled and flapped, while outside delivery drays pulled up one after another, laden with fancy foodstuffs, exotic plants, garlands of flowers and gifts large and
small from all corners of Napoleon’s empire.

  Sophie was eating in the servants’ quarters, but couldn’t understand why there was yet no sign of Fleur. No one else noticed her absence, because one of the housemaids was reading out the menu for the wedding feast tomorrow night.

  ‘Pickled oysters. Buttered lobster. Venison in a pastry case. Mutton à la Turc. Roast lamb with cockles. Trifle and gingerbread ices—oh, my!’ breathed the housemaid longingly.

  ‘All that fancy stuff won’t impress Napoleon.’ A cocky young groom laughed. ‘You all know what he’s like over food. “Fifteen minutes is time enough for anyone to fill his stomach,” says our little emperor.’ He winked saucily. ‘His views are exactly the same, by the way, on the subject of—ahem!—carnal relations.’

  ‘Quiet, you cheeky young scamp!’ ordered a burly cook.

  Just then Fleur came hurrying in, looking white and desperate.

  ‘Fleur!’ Sophie was at her side in an instant. ‘Whatever is it, my dear?’

  ‘Oh, Mam’selle Sophie!’ Poor Fleur was openly sobbing now. ‘It’s my Henri. They’ve told me he died in the fighting in Spain. He won’t be coming back—ever!’ She collapsed in Sophie’s arms, in floods of tears.

  That evening Jacques the painter was waiting for her in the usual place. His eyes narrowed. ‘You look serious.’

  She sighed, pulling off her hooded cloak as she unlocked the door and let him into the wedding chapel. ‘Someone who works with me—a young friend—learned today that her fiancé has been killed in Spain. They were going to be married in the summer. It’s so cruel for poor Fleur, with the talk of the wedding everywhere!’

  ‘And isn’t that life?’ Jacques asked quietly. ‘To love and to lose perhaps? Isn’t that the point of living? No one can guard themselves for ever. No one can be safe for ever, whatever emotional walls they put up. We have to find happiness where we can.’

  She gazed at him. His voice was so grave. As though he, too, had secrets, dark secrets perhaps. How could she bear not ever learning more about him, not ever seeing him again?

  He took her hand and said gently, ‘Sit, and watch me work. Only a coat of varnish, and I’ve finished.’

  So she watched him, taking pleasure in his skill, enjoying his calm, competent movements and smothering her forbidden yearning for his touch, his kiss. They talked about Paris, and their lives and hopes.

  ‘I suppose you will want to become a successful painter like Monsieur David,’ she said. ‘My father will help you if he can.’

  ‘My thanks.’ He smiled. ‘And I’ve enjoyed the task. Have you, Sophie?’

  She hesitated. ‘I always take pleasure in seeing a job well done.’

  He laughed. ‘Just as well, since you are in a position of some responsibility at the Tuileries. I’m sure your colleagues respect you enormously.’

  But I don’t want respect, she was thinking in anguish. I want love. Yes, love…

  He was putting away his painting things. ‘All finished,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Listen, Sophie, there will be tightrope walkers and tumblers in the Tuileries Gardens tonight. Come with me, why don’t you?’

  She stood very still. The gardens at night were a place of loose behaviour, of debauchery even. She said, as steadily as she could, ‘You might prefer to attend the celebrations with your friends.’

  ‘Aren’t we friends, Sophie?’ A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. ‘I’m just inviting you for a walk, in the Tuileries Gardens, tonight, the eve of the royal wedding.’

  ‘And my debt to you?’ she whispered.

  ‘It’s been my pleasure. Consider it paid off,’ he said.

  She often wondered afterwards why she, a sensible twenty-three-year-old seamstress, should have agreed so lightly. Perhaps because so much had contributed, that day, to her emotional state. Fleur’s tragedy. Her own sense of time passing. Jacques was right: she always did shut herself off from life!

  But not tonight. Tonight, the warm spring air of Paris was intoxicated with the forthcoming wedding. The gardens were sweetly scented with blossom, and bright with tulips and love-in-a-mist. The fountains played, glittering in the moonlight. Other couples, happy, in love, were walking down the broad avenues and along the shrubbery paths.

  Jacques took her arm, and as they strolled he told her tales of his boyhood. ‘I was a little wild, I’m afraid. Rebellious.’ He laughed. ‘My dream was to be an artist, though my father, who died five years ago, wouldn’t hear of it.’

  ‘But he would be proud of you now!’ Sophie gazed up at him earnestly. ‘Your work is so beautiful!’

  He was gazing down at her, something dark and fathomless in his eyes. ‘Not as beautiful as you,’ he said softly. ‘Ah, I’m sorry, I’ve embarrassed you.… Tell me your dreams, sweet Sophie. Surely you didn’t always want to be…a seamstress?’

  ‘I’m a senior seamstress!’ she protested defensively. ‘It’s what I do best!’

  ‘But you’ve never tried anything else,’ he said. ‘And that’s because you gave up your own hopes and dreams to safeguard your father’s job.’

  ‘That is not true! It was no sacrifice to work at the Tuileries. I have no forlorn hopes, no unfulfilled dreams!’

  ‘Well, I have,’ he said.

  She stared up at him, astonished. ‘What?’

  He’d caught her wrist and was gently pulling her closer. ‘Sweet Sophie, I dream of just one more kiss from you.’

  If only it had ended there, thought Sophie in anguish as much later she stole upstairs to her dark attic bedroom. If only it had ended with a kiss! What had she been thinking of?

  It was the warm, soft Paris night. It was the musicians, playing in the terraced gardens. It was the twinkling lights set up around the trees for the wedding; it was the scented early roses, it was…

  It was Jacques, you idiot. It was Jacques. If he had set out to seduce her, he couldn’t have chosen a better time or place in the whole world. And she hadn’t been exactly unwilling. From the first moment his lips had touched hers, and he’d let his skilled hands slip round to cup the soft contours of each breast, she’d been lost. Utterly lost.

  ‘Tell me,’ he’d said. ‘Tell me the instant you want me to stop, Sophie.’

  But there hadn’t been a single minute when she didn’t want to be held even tighter by those strong arms, breathing in the scent of his clean skin as his lips sweetly caressed and explored. Sensation—pure sensation—leapt deep inside, and began to flood her every nerve ending, bringing her not only to life, but to awareness of burning need. Especially when his fingers found the peak of her breast beneath her gown, and teased it into hot hardness. Then, she wound her arms round his shoulders and held him, tightly. ‘Jacques.’

  He looked at her once more, his eyes grave. He said, ‘There is still time. I will take you home whenever you say. You must not feel obliged to continue with this, Sophie.’

  ‘But I don’t want you to stop,’ she whispered. ‘And, Jacques, it’s nothing to do with…obligation. It’s to do with you, and me, and life! I’m tired of being sensible, and responsible, and always doing the right thing. I want to do the wrong thing, just for once, with you, tonight!’

  ‘You are sure?’ His hands tightened round her. His breathing was harsh.

  ‘Quite sure!’ She blinked in sudden self-doubt. ‘That is—if you want me.…’

  ‘Oh, Sophie.’ He crushed her against him so she became aware, suddenly, of the hardness at his loins. Her eyes flew up to his, wide, startled.

  ‘There,’ Jacques the artist said softly, ‘you have your answer.’

  A reckless yearning seized her every fibre as he stroked her spine from the nape of her neck to her hips, sending shivers of desire through her. ‘Imagine that tonight is a dream,’ he whispered. ‘Just you and me in the whole world. No duties to care about, no one else to think about, just us.’ He brushed her lips with his silken mouth. ‘In a dream, everything is possible.’

  There was a secluded pavilion along one of
the paths, and he led her there in the twilight, away from the crowds. He closed the door, then drew her close again. A kiss—a deep, cherishing kiss—and she was lost to him, being dragged deeper and deeper in a whirlpool of pleasure. She moaned softly as he slipped down the shoulder of her dress and caught one nipple between his lips, drawing up fierce kindlings of desire. She felt herself dissolving, becoming molten in his hands, and when those hands gently lowered her to the floor, when he swept up her skirts and caressed her and felt the tremors passing through her, she clutched him to her.

  ‘Jacques. Jacques,’ she breathed.

  He was with her then, as one in urgent desire—freeing himself, easing himself into her, caressing and coaxing as she rose to his hand, to his steely yet silken entry. With care he began to move, guiding her body into the rhythm of love, and Sophie was only aware of him possessing her, driving her to undreamed-of delights, as she clung to him, whispering out his name, because the waves of pleasure that washed through her with each stroke made it impossible for her to do anything else.

  His lips were on her mouth again, on her breast; she cried out, her whole body racked with intense pleasure, as he held her, held her so tightly, and drove himself to his own release.

  Afterwards, he drew her gently to her feet and helped her to restore her disordered clothing.

  ‘Sophie,’ he said. ‘I want to see you again.’ His hands lingered on her shoulders. ‘But tomorrow, I am busy.’

  ‘We will all be busy, I think,’ she said brightly.

  ‘Indeed. But there is something I must tell you. Something important. And I must tell you—soon.’

  Now she lay in her attic bed, unable to sleep, unable to concentrate on anything but Jacques as the dreary hours went by. He wants to tell me he is married. Or has a mistress he adores. What a fool he must think me. I am twenty-three years old—and I begged him to make love to me, like a nun released from a convent. I surrendered to him in those moonlit gardens like a prostitute.